Moving On
by Laurie M
Summary: Flynn/Daniels, season 5. Relationships - even the simplest of them - were a tight-rope walk, leaving the safety of solitude and hoping you'd make it across to the person waiting on the other side without falling.


**DISCLAIMER: **I DO NOT OWN THE CLOSER OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.

**AUTHOR NOTE:** I'm taking a break from my usual ship for this fandom and giving it up for the possibilities of a Flynn/Daniels hook-up. Set in Season 5: he's handsome, she's beautiful, they're both hot and single. Plus, **ComingCloser19** has been ill lately and she gave a shout-out, so I thought this might help make her feel a little bit better.

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**Moving On**

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It wasn't a queue, exactly, just inside the door of the restaurant: more a milling around of people trying to negotiate who would go first without wanting to be the one to call it. For a moment she had thought of going elsewhere but she couldn't face her empty apartment - not just yet - and it felt like too much effort to find anywhere else. And somewhere that was more familiar this close to Parker Centre always held the possibility of running into someone she would sooner avoid.

Irene leant against a pillar, surreptitiously easing off one shoe and allowing the feeling to come back into the ball of her foot. She bent slightly, massaged it, roughened skin catching under her fingers. A waiter flapped past her, smiled apologetically and she smiled back. They had a small bar, she noticed; maybe a quiet drink, read her magazine and by the time she was done they would have a table ready for her. She slipped her shoe back on, headed towards the darker, calmer area of the restaurant and, drawing nearer, realised that there was a familiar someone on one of the stools: Andy Flynn, chin propped on one hand, staring at nothing in particular.

The strangeness of seeing him there so unexpectedly stopped her. They had got on together, been friendly; he had treated her with a respect he reserved for only a select few; she had learnt how to see past his barbed jokes almost without trying. He layered sarcasm like armour, defying anyone to find the chinks. There were chinks and sometimes in those moments when they had appeared - so rare she could probably list them all - she had wanted to widen them, to keep chipping away until she had worn down all those defences and could get a good look at who was under there.

Someone not very different, probably: just a little softer around the edges.

The chance of finding out seemed to have gone when she had packed up her desk and slipped out of the Murder Room without waiting to hear any goodbyes. She had wanted to side-step the finality of her departure that such scenes would bring; and since then every thought of Major Case had been tied to David. But in trying to avoid one person she had ended up avoiding all of them and it didn't seem fair. She watched Flynn for a moment, re-remembering the lines of his face, then walked across; even when she was beside him he didn't stir, didn't notice her, until she touched his arm. He started, his face taut and then relaxing again as he recognised her. He smiled. Everything always changed when he smiled.

'Well, well, if it isn't the ghost of Detective Daniels.' He held up a hand. 'Sorry, _Sergeant_ Daniels.'

She returned the smile warmly. 'Hello, Lieutenant.'

He inspected her, as though looking for any damage inflicted by working the C.I. division. There was none. She looked good; she had always looked good.

'Are you coming or going?' he asked.

'I just got here; I'm waiting for a table.'

'Me too - how about we wait together and you can tell me all about the idiots you're working with these days.'

They'd overlooked the tact gene when they put Flynn together she thought, and let him help her up onto the stool beside him.

'How is everyone?' she asked once the barman had brought her order; she stirred the contents, listening to the pleasant sound of ice against glass.

'Pretty much the same as always.'

Tao, he told her, was even more excited about the upgrade to the communications system than Buzz was; Sanchez was more like himself again but would probably never be quite the same; the chief was still waging her war against sugar in all its forms and failing nobly; Provenza-

'Provenza is in love.' His face registered his disgust.

She tried to imagine that impossibility. 'Isn't that a good thing?'

He glared at her, betrayal scarring the air around him. 'You haven't heard him. You haven't _seen_ him: he's got no dignity at all; he's carrying on like he's thirty-five.' He paused. 'He's also trying to pass her off as twenty-nine, which she isn't ... unless she's told him that and he believes it and in that case he's an even bigger idiot than I thought.'

Irene smothered a smile at the outraged diatribe, leant her cheek against her hand. 'So, I take it that you don't like her.'

'I-' He stopped again, then shrugged. 'She seems nice enough,' he said, grudgingly. She had seemed nice in the five minutes he had met her; it was not, technically, her fault that he got a sinking feeling every time Provenza mentioned her name. 'Provenza paraded her through the Murder Room- You'd have thought that he'd have known better by now. Four marriages. Four. Twice to the same woman; although, that should tell you something. Okay, Lauren's a good looking woman, so I can sorta see where he's coming from - but what the hell does she see in him?'

'Maybe she just likes him,' she offered.

'I'm his best friend and I don't like him.'

Irene smiled slightly and ignored it. The cracks were there behind the words.

'It's nice that you worry about him,' she said; he looked uncomfortable.

The gentleness of her voice never quite hid the steel beneath it; and he'd always had a weakness for women who were stronger than they first appeared. Irene Daniels had a way of looking at a man as though she already knew all his secrets and he wondered, vaguely, if it would be more or less fun trying to hide anyway. That sudden thought, however distant, was startling; he pushed it away; he wasn't supposed to think about her like that.

'I just don't want him making a fool of himself,' he said in the end. 'Because you know who'll have to scrape him back up again when it all goes wrong.'

'But you will.'

He grunted. 'It's not like I have a choice.'

'Yes you do.' She took some of her drink, set it back down. 'It might work out for them.'

A breath was blown out. 'Yeah, maybe.' He battled for restraint but the impulse was simply too strong. 'But it won't.' She laughed at him a little and rearranged herself on the stool. Flynn watched as she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, one over the other, smooth skin sliding against skin; one shoe dangled precariously from her toes, like a question mark in the air. He moved his eyes before she could catch him looking.

He continued with stories from the squad, focussing on the foibles of her former colleagues that she remembered so well. The tone was kept light, effortless, and even with all her own expertise in dealing with people it was some time before she noticed that there was one name he had not mentioned. Tact, she thought, revising her earlier assessment; he was trying not to reopen the wounds and it had been done with an unexpected delicacy. She was surprised at herself on two counts: that thinking of David did not bring the familiar spear of resentment and pain; and that she had forgotten the simple fact that there was a reason that Flynn had been the star of Robbery-Homicide, a reason why Chief Johnson relied on his instincts. He could read people, knew when to talk and when to hold back.

He didn't talk about himself all that much. It was surprising in someone who talked so much and seemed at variance with his peacock tendencies, amply demonstrated in the brilliant blue of his shirt and the jewel-like tie. His method was to deflect, to call attention to the general weirdness of the city they inhabited.

She had never thought of him hiding before, but he was hiding all the time.

A waiter, harrassed, came over, inserting himself between them.

'We have your table,' he told Flynn and his eyes slid towards Irene hopefully. 'It's a table for two...'

Subtle, Flynn thought. He was silent for a moment; a beautiful dinner companion would make a pleasant change; he could pretend to himself for a while that he was a normal human being. 'Apparently I have a table for two,' he said to her. She smiled. 'Feel like sharing?'

'That sounds great.'

The waiter looked relieved.

Irene slid off the stool, rocking her shoe back into position and felt the dull ache in her feet start up again. She collected her things, taking her purse that Flynn handed to her. It was still crowded as they started forward. She stopped suddenly, her path impeded, and they bumped against each other. His arm moved to shield her - more instinct than intentional, she was sure; he didn't actually touch her but, quite suddenly, she felt enveloped by him, the warmth she could feel, the light scent of cologne. She looked up at his face; he was looking past her, glaring at the person who had blocked their path. The man was red-faced, belligerent, but he still took a step back.

She still looked up at Flynn. It was like watching a kaleidoscope, seeing all the same pieces rearranged into something new - like she had seen him, really seen him, for the first time. And with it came the realisation that in trying get past his barriers, somehow he'd got past hers.

Relationships - even the simplest of them - were a tight-rope walk, leaving the safety of solitude and hoping you'd make it across to the person waiting on the other side without falling.

They continued through the restaurant and she felt weightless, disconnected. When seated she pressed her feet hard against the floor, trying to ground herself again.

In the last few moments, Flynn thought, something had shifted, a change that he couldn't quite name. Irene hadn't withdrawn, not quite, but she was thoughtful. She stared at her menu but didn't seem to be reading it; every now and then he caught the dark flash of her eyes looking at him. There was an expression in them that was familiar from other eyes in other places and he told himself he had imagined it. Loose hair fell across her forehead and she raised a hand to brush it away; he followed the movement, studied her face and that mix of intensity and serenity that she always had and decided to take refuge in the familiar.

'I've got a good one for you,' he said. She looked up at him, expectant. 'But you have to promise not to repeat it to anyone- But I forgot who I'm talking to: you're great at keeping secrets.'

Her head tilted, brows drawing together. 'You are not letting that go, are you?'

He laughed, sat back. 'You'll enjoy this. See, it all started when the Pope himself decided that he wanted a ride-along; or, as he put it, to be just one of the guys...'

It was a story that needed few embellishments but he drew it out, piling on the details. He was entranced by the way she listened, by the way incredulity gave way to laughter, by the way her black eyes glittered.

'And you know what the worst part was?'

'What?'

'For a fake detective the guy was better than a lot of real detectives. Talk about adding insult to injury.' He shook his head in disgust and she laughed again.

'I miss that about the squad.'

He frowned. 'Police impersonators?'

She rolled her eyes at him. 'No. We don't have many laughs in C.I. Everyone's very serious; there are no jokes, there isn't anyone to keep our spirits up.' Of all the things she missed, she thought suddenly, she had missed that more than she had realised.

'How about I e-mail you a list of jokes; you can read out one a day.'

Irene smiled slightly. 'That wouldn't be the same.'

'No. I guess not.' He fiddled with a loose thread fraying on the edge of the tablecloth. 'We miss you too, you know. Look, just because Gabriel is an idiot doesn't mean that we can't still be friends.'

'I know.' She sat very still, hands clasped on the tabletop.

'Of course, since you've been gone all our financial instincts have gone to hell. I can't even balance my chequebook anymore. Remind me: how many quarters are there in a dollar again?'

Her lips twitched. 'Six.'

Flynn sighed, spread his hands in resignation. 'See? And there's me thinking that there are seven. I'm completely lost.' He paused. 'Then there's the fact that the view from my desk isn't what it used to be.'

'Are you actually flirting with me?'

She was smiling slightly he realised; and the look in her eyes was definitely familiar. 'Maybe just a little. Is that a problem?'

'No... No, as a matter of fact: it isn't,' she said, holding his gaze and taking the first step across the chasm.

Over dinner they talked of other things. At its end they squabbled amiably over the bill, resolution coming when Irene conceded defeat but only on the understanding that next time would be her turn. They both overlooked when 'next time' might be. The restaurant had finally quietened, only a handful of late diners remaining when they vacated their table.

He held her jacket, settling it on her shoulders and watching as she moved her hair out of the way, exposing the curves of her neck, watched as the black waves fell into place again.

'Nice perfume,' he said. She looked over her shoulder at him, her lips curving.

'Thanks.'

'Is that the one I had to buy you three bottles of?'

He recognised the scent: the salesgirl had insisted on squirting the stuff around and then holding out her own wrist for him to sniff. It smelt a lot better on Irene, he thought. Irene - a sweet, old-dashioned name. It suited her.

'I'm on the last bottle.'

He frowned at her. 'What do you do? Bathe in the stuff?'

'Tell me something,' she said, turning to face him, 'do you work at being hard-boiled or were you just born that way?'

'I read a lot of Mickey Spillane as a kid.'

'Oh.'

He laughed again, followed her out.

A breeze had sprung up, cooling the night of the day's heat; it caught at her hair, danced against her skin, but her cheeks still felt hot. They performed a slow circuit of the square, moving away from the still-illumined fronts of the restaurants and bars behind them to the deeper shadows on the other side. They stopped, wordless, keeping distance between them. Flynn had his hands in his pockets, turned has face upwards, studying the sky. Velvet black and cloudless. Irene studied him, the line of his jaw, the hair brushing his collar and felt a wave of desire so strong she braced herself against the wall behind her to stop herself from going to him.

'Star-gazing?'

He made a noise like a snort. 'You can't see any. It's all this light pollution. I mean look at that.' He gestured to the expanse of city lights and shook his head. 'They make out like if you leave your TV on standby overnight you'll single-handedly kill the planet but somehow all those empty offices with their lights on twenty-four hours a day is okay.'

'Andy Flynn: eco-warrior.' Her voice came from the shadows.

'Hey, there's a lot you don't know about me.'

He could see the glitter of her eyes. She stood very still, as though waiting for something. He had a feeling that he'd been waiting for something for a very long time and he was tired of it. He walked across to her, took her face between his hands and she leant forward to meet him. Her lips were soft and warm.

They held onto each other, tight; it felt like she was falling but she wasn't falling on her own this time.

His face was still so close to hers; she could feel his breath against her lips; she placed one hand against his cheek.

'My relationships- They never last,' she said softly.

He shrugged, his hands at her waist. 'No-one's ever do.'

She let out a breath of laughter. 'Well that's a great start.'

'Hey, I never said it's a reason not to try.' One corner of his mouth turned up. 'And it's no reason why we can't be friends.'

'Just friends?' she asked, her fingers playing with the hair at the back of his neck.

'More than friends.'

'I like more than friends.'

_**FIN**_


End file.
